Western Short StoryThe MarkerTom Sheehan

Western Short Story

The
crude cross was driven into the ground midway between two trees still
wearing remnants of rusted barbed wire. The lone man had thrown the
last shovelful of dirt on top on the mound before he set up the cross
that he made from two branches broken off the trees. There’d been a
swing hanging from one branch for the early years, and he recalled
how the remnant barbed wire whistled when the wind was strong. In a
last look around, he studied the location of the marker between the
two trees and lined up two other sites perpendicular to the tree
line, a large rock most likely never to be moved and another rock
across the grass only Mother Nature herself would ever dislodge, and
which would be calamitous. He muttered a few solemn words, followed
them with an epithet not repeated here, and then jammed his hat
tightly in place.

He
mounted his horse, a big gray stallion, checked the rifle in the
scabbard, and two pistols on his belt, and rode off. Northwest he
headed, far peaks catching sunlight in blue-white brilliance. Once
more he framed the epithet with his lips as he spurred the gray, the
August sun setting on his back a thick mantel of warmth.

He
had come on this land as a new husband and was leaving it as a
widower 26 years later. Margaret Mary, the best thing ever in his
life, rested behind him, a stray bullet taking her life on her own
porch.

The
gunfight had been spurious; bandits in flight looking for horses, her
exclamations from the porch that the horses were not for sale or for
the taking, that her husband was due any minute and would settle the
issue.

He
had come in the middle of the theft, hearing her yelling at three men
to leave at once. He galloped into the midst of them, killing one
man, wounding another, and the third fleeing north on a tired horse.

Harland
Yeats learned how to curse the moment Margaret Mary uttered her last
breath, in his arms, and saying as she had said on hundreds of
occasions, “Oh, Hal. Oh, Hal.” His hand, under her, began to
collect the flow of blood.

He’d
trail that third man to the end of the world, wanting to get him
before his sons did the chasing. The wounded man, not Margaret Mary’s
killer, was soon in jail.

On
the table in Margaret Mary’s kitchen, he left a note for his sons,
making the message as short as he could but with purpose and
intention in his words:

“Matthew,
Mark, You’ve probably heard before you read this, but I buried your
mother where she said was her favorite place outside of this room.
Three men tried to steal some of our horses. One is dead. One is
wounded and in jail. The one who shot your mother rode off before I
could get him. I am going after him. Take care of things until I get
back. Dad”

He
worried about how much attention they’d pay to his last sentence.
And his thoughts roamed off with her always saying she had wanted
Luke and John to be part of her family.

Yeats
was long on the trail before his sons came back from the drive they
worked on. He had seen the man who had fled, remembered his clothes,
his hair when his hat fell away, that he was a clumsy lefthander. He
could describe him, knew what his horse was like, could see him going
for his gun and firing off that crooked shot, almost aimless,
useless, until Margaret Mary collapsed on the porch.

Yeats,
as time would prove, learned new curses with the continuing sights in
his mind.

A
full day’s ride brought him to a clump of trees and brush about a
half mile from a ranch house he had visited in the past with a
previous owner. In the trees he spotted the killer’s horse hobbled
by a short rope on his forelegs, and the saddle and saddle blanket
gone off the animal’s back.

He
found where the killer had walked off a way, found where he thought
the saddle had been set on some brush, and a new set of tracks where
he must have put the saddle on another horse, stolen from the nearby
ranch.

Yeats
approached the ranch until he realized he was facing a man with a
rifle pointed at him. The rifle was as thin as the man holding it,
but he had a quizzical and broad look on his face that was not
entirely ferocious. He had apparently seen Yeats as harmless, At
least Yeats thought so.

“Hold
there,” the man said, shouldering the rifle, “who are you and
what do you want.” There was no fear on his face.

“I
am Harland Yeats from Hatfield, back a day’s ride. I’m chasing
the man who killed my wife when he and his friends tried to steal
some of my horses. I knew Purnell who used to live here. Who are you?
Have you had a horse stolen from you?”

“I
bought this place from Purnell. I’m sorry about your loss. I had a
horse stolen sometime during the day when I was looking for strays up
in the hills. But only one horse. His friends have horses?”

“They
didn’t get this far.”

“You
get them? I’m Jeff Salisbury.” He put out his hand to shake, hiss
early assessment of Yeats confirmed.

“I
got one and one in jail and still hurting I hope.”

“Good
man. I was going after him but my wife was too upset and worried, so
I was letting her settle down before I lit out after him.”

Yeats
said, “I have two sons who most likely will be after me. I’d
appreciate a quick meal and a promise that you’ll hold them back as
long as you can. Try any kind of a story you want, but I want that
man to myself. Tell me what kind of a horse he stole. I’ll
appreciate all the help you can give me, Mr. Salisbury.”

“My
wife Winifred will get you a quick meal and I’ll hold up your boys
long as I can. I suspect that’s going to take some doing on my
part, considering their purpose and intentions.” He was measuring
Yeats again and what Yeats’ sons most likely would bring to bear on
their mission. “The stolen horse was a rugged paint, three white
socks and one black sock and his left neck near spotted with black on
white. He was getting a day’s rest as I rode him all day yesterday.
Your killer knows a good animal ‘cause he picked my best.”

Salisbury
waved to a woman on the front stoop of the ranch house. She was
almost as tall as her husband, and just as thin as a crane sitting a
rock in a creek. “There’s Winifred now. She’ll have something
on the table real quick. Lady’s like greased lightning when she’s
ginning about the kitchen.”

Yeats
smiled as he saw a flash of Margaret Mary handling a pot and two
plates and a loaf of warm bread in one dash from stove to table top.
He almost found another curse framed on the instance, but shook his
head.

“If
I can talk her into it, I’d go along with you,” Salisbury said,
the chances showing nil on his face. “When she hears about your
wife, she’ll close down like a winter bear.”

“You
do me the best favor by sitting on my boys as long as you can. Give
them an extra meal, a place to sleep, tell them I went right past
here last night, say you don’t know where.”

“I’ll
do what I can.” There was promise in his voice.

Winifred
Salisbury didn’t fold into a ball of sympathy, as Yeats thought she
might, rather she moved into a stony and distant composure. She spun
about the kitchen in her manner and had a plate set down in front of
Yeats as fast as promised by her husband. She spoke once, saying,
“I’m sorry for your loss. Such things worry me every day.” She
never said another word to Yeats, who left saying only, “Thank you
for your gesture and your concern and I wish good things for you.”

Winifred
Salisbury was out of her mind as soon as Margaret Mary made another
appearance in one of her favorite poses. Yeats heard her voice again,
coming from another darkness.

Interrupted,
but adamant, he rode off still on the trail, the description of
Salisbury’s horse locked in his mind, and the images of the killer
tucked away just as clear as the moment he first saw them. The white
socks of the paint floated in his mind, the spots on the neck, trying
to affirm what side they were on, for he was suddenly unsure.

But
the trail of the paint, with two new front shoes according to
Salisbury, was easy to follow on the way off the rancher’s
property. It lead north as before, due north, the sun a simmering
orange-redness on his left shoulder, and Yeats knew the two towns to
the north, hugging the river, Litchfield and Carver. He was not sure
which one he’d end up in because the regular trail would lead, in
part, to each town.

And
he had old friends there.

In
both towns.

He’d
hopefully use those friends before his sons could get there, before
Salisbury wilted in front of their resolve, and perhaps joined them
to the disappointment of his wife. He could hear Matthew saying,
“Salisbury, you best own up to our questions with some straight
talk or we’ll drag you along with us to get your horse back, see
our pa is safe, and get the rat who caused all this, and we beg the
forgiveness of your wife. We ain’t here to hurt her or you or
anybody ‘cept those who delay us, like you’re doing.”

He
could hear Matthew’s words as clear as he could hear Margaret Mary
say, “Oh, Hal. Oh, Hal.”

The
new shoes of the paint came to a decision point, Yeats figured, for
they appeared to have danced around in some indecision, here and
there, and finally, probably after some resolve or reason came to the
rider, the trail headed off to Carver where the road broke in two
parts.

One
of his old hands, Jethro Kohlrausch, at last report, had become
sheriff of Carver. If Yeats had a need to talk when the trail failed,
Kohlrausch would be a good ear, would lend a hand.

Kohlrausch,
though, had been injured in a fall, a bad fall, and was stuck to a
bed in a boarding house, and had little to offer Yeats in the way of
help.

So,
after wishing his old hand the best of luck, Yeats headed for the
livery, checked the horses, walked around town, spotted a few paints
that did not fit Salisbury’s description, and went off to the
saloon to get rid of trail dust.

With
a sense of ease, not expecting to see the pursued killer in the
saloon, Yeats stopped in his tracks as he had taken only two steps
into the room. There, at the bar, just spinning around to leave, was
Margaret Mary’s killer, who looked up, saw the look on Yeats’
face, drew his weapon, and shot Yeats in the left shoulder. Yeats
went down, hurting like hell, hit his head, and went unconscious.

In
the turmoil, the desperado fled the saloon, saying, “That man has
been trailing me for weeks and weeks, saying I killed his son. I have
to get away from him.”

When
Yeats regained consciousness, after a fitful sleep and the pain
finally subsiding after the bullet was extracted by a handy bartender
because the town had no doctor, sons Matthew and Mark and Jeff
Salisbury were standing over him, their faces after several moments
breaking into great grins that could have been approaching
significant accomplishments.

Salisbury
said, with a sense of glee that he found hard to hide or disguise,
“It was a great pleasure to meet your sons, Mr. Yeats. Winifred
took to them right off because they were very persuasive about
revenge for their mother. They convinced her to let me come with
them. You ought to be proud of them.”

He
stepped back from the bed Yeats was settled into.

Matthew
stepped up, put his hand on Yeats’ hand sitting on his chest, and
said, “We got him, Pa, in a ravine just up north of here, before
you get to Litchfield. The paint he stole threw one of his new shoes
and we walked right in on him as he was commiserating about his luck.
We didn’t even have to take a shot, which really hurt us, but Mr.
Salisbury squashed that real quick ‘cause we had that rat dead to
rights and he was scared hell of us screaming at him to stand still
or die on the spot. He’s in jail right now and the sheriff here
says we can bring him back home for a trial.”

Yeats
looked at Jeff Salisbury and said, “You found it hard to persuade
them not to come, didn’t you, just like I said?”

Salisbury
looked at Yeats’ sons, turned back to Yeats and said, “Yes, I
did, but my Winifred didn’t have any trouble with her way, did
she?”